Being Poetic Sans the Poetry

My dream home is a aged cottage on the northeast coast in New England, probably somewhere in Maine. The cold granite shores that break suddenly to icy sand, grey and tough. I can see deep green grass on a mossy knoll just on the other side of a dark treeline, though midday it may be. The smell of bark and earth clings to the air whilst churned on the saline wind, almost refuse in odor. The structure was white once, as was the dancing picket fence, though patches of paint have since been stripped away, by time's grave temptations and Poseidon's mighty breath. Concrete crumbles softly in the twilight, aggregate made loose or visible in the heavy rains, motions of dancing lime in the patches of dry mud where small creeks once dwell'd. Great panes of poorly made yet highly sought windows distort vision into the gloomy bright of the cottage interior. The door, faintly red, character, brass knob rough with thousands of strands spun across its surface, listing a little to the left, loose when handled yet secure when closed. Two stories, the second with a loft and a faux light tower, where mites and creeping things tend to dwell, a musky nook of chilling warmth to rest and read and dream and look over the crashing deep, seemingly within reach. Why is it, we're attracted to such old and desolate things? Have you ever noticed, we cling to familiarity even in the absence of nostalgia. I travel past scenes of decrepit homes and hamlets and ask myself, who lives there? In their towering heaps, their crusty exteriors, moss grown canopies and debris strewn roofs. What patterns rest on their curtains? How cold is their kitchen on a early spring morning? What scratches are on the floors? Do their floorboards creak in protest or sigh softly as they slowly molder to sawdust? Linoleum and yesteryear's sparse carpets. Knicknacks and bobbins and familiar things, heirlooms that lose value in a generation. Have you ever noticed government buildings built in the last thirty years resemble prisons, but in the last ten they resemble Frank Lloyd Wright attempts? I have been very pensive as of late. Walls built. Wars won. Triumphs made. And dragons slain.